


Recipe for Disaster

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Fluff, Crazy!Castiel, SPN fluff, castiel humor, gender neutral reader, spn humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 09:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12504604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Season 7 Crazy!Castiel adorably spoils dinner. Please accept this attempt at humor as a gesture of solidarity.





	Recipe for Disaster

The lid on the boiling pot of water clattered noisily against the roiling pressure of steam rising past the rim. The delicious scents of citrus and rosemary wafted from the warmth of the oven, drifting out into the rest of the cabin and overpowering the smell of fresh paint used to mark the walls with various demonic and angelic warding symbols. You busied yourself setting the rustic table with actual matching dishes and utensils for once instead of the haphazard grab-whatever-is-in-the-drawer-and-convenient-to-shovel-food-into-your-mouth model of food ingestion the boys were accustomed to practicing. You hopefully set out wine glasses, not actually expecting either brother to touch them, but willing to be surprised by the possibility. Arranging the spray of wildflowers Castiel popped off to gather a few moments ago in some faraway verdant meadow after you wished aloud for a spot of bright color to dress the otherwise drab table, you glanced up and smiled at the angel squatting in front of the oven and squinting intently through the tiny window on the front. He’d been through so much recently – death, resurrection, amnesia, and taking on Sam’s burden of torture courtesy of Lucifer – it was no wonder to you that his wits buckled under the pressure. He was still Cas though – adorable and sweet, but with a handful of interesting new hobbies, a curious obsession with insects, and an annoying aversion to conflict making him utterly useless to the Winchesters. The red Kiss the Cook apron donned over his white scrubs and trench coat had been his idea, and you took chaste advantage of the offer several times while instructing him in the preparation of dinner.  
Sam and Dean blustered through the cabin door, slamming it shut, frame shaking as they entered.  
Cas rose and frowned at the ruckus.  
Sam inhaled deeply, eyes closing in sensory ecstasy as he breathed in the warm smell of the roasting chicken. Exhaling, he hummed approval, “Something smells amazing!”  
Dean bounded across the cabin in three strides, slipped past Cas, and plucked the cover off the boiling pot to examine the contents much to the angel’s dismay. The elder Winchester snickered at the red apron, spinning and holding the lid above his head as Cas tried repeatedly to grab it. He flashed you a playful grin when you turned to witness the chaos, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”  
“Spatchcock chicken,” you answered, unamused, rolling your eyes at his antics.  
“Say what now?” Dean asked, brow furrowed askance. He relinquished the lid.  
“Spatchcock chicken,” Cas repeated, nodding politely in thanks as he accepted the cover and returned it to the pot.  
“Yeesh, that sounds painful,” Sam winced and tensed his shoulders.  
“I think a wendigo tried to do that to me once,” Dean snatched a raw green bean from the counter, bit it in half, grimaced, and chucked the offending vegetable across the cabin to hit his brother in the chest.  
Sam wagged his chin in condemnation of the act.  
You put your hands on your hips, inquiring disbelievingly, “A wendigo tried to butterfly, lay you flat, and roast you in an oven?”  
“Whatever, Julia Childs,” Dean snorted, redirecting his attention to retrieving a cold beer from the fridge.  
Sam stepped nearer, chuckling to himself as he pointed at the angel, “Guess that makes Cas Jacques Pepin, huh?”  
Dean cracked the top off the hissing beer. Cas fretted over the boiling pot with a slotted spoon. Both of them turned in unison to ask, “Who?”  
Sam raised an eyebrow as if he could not fathom their complete lack of knowledge on the matter, “Her cooking partner-nevermind.” His gaze moved expectantly to you for backup.  
“How do you even know who that is, Sam?” you pondered. “I didn’t know you had any culinary interests.”  
“He’s into just about anything that involves a lot of sweat,” Dean pointed the bottle of beer in his direction for emphasis before drinking a swig.  
Sam shrugged and pressed his lips thin, “PBS. Babysitter to lonely children across the states stuck in motels with no cable whose father and brother left them behind to go on a hunting trip.”  
Dean sheepishly shrank from his brother’s accusatory glare and struck Cas lightly on the arm with the back of his hand to redirect attention, “You learning anything useful Cas?”  
“Yes, cooking is exceptionally violent,” the angel answered, bending to slide the roasting pan, bare-handed, from the oven. He inclined his countenance at the beautifully browned bird, “This chicken was beheaded, exsanguinated, plucked, brined, flayed, and trussed before being placed into a blazing inferno to burn it for good measure to an internal temperature of...of…”  
You approached from behind, a gentle hand touching his shoulder, offering Cas the meat thermometer, “170 degrees Fahrenheit.”  
“170?” he asked in confirmation.  
You bobbed your head.  
“You mean the wooden holster for knives on the counter didn’t tip you off?” Dean smirked.  
“It’s called a knife block,” Sam pointed out.  
Dean scowled, “I don’t care what you want to call it Rachael Ray, it’s a holster.”  
Ignoring the brothers’ bickering, Cas wandered down his own meandering trail of thought, “I understand why some humans choose not to participate in the consumption of meat.”  
“Sammy,” Dean coughed into his sleeve.  
Sam glowered, “Dean, you’ve seen me eat meat.”  
“Yeah, maybe under duress, like, when they’re out of that green junk you always order,” Dean retorted.  
“It’s called salad,” Sam scoffed.  
Reaching around the blockade of men now occupying the small workspace in front of the stove to turn off the oven, you chided Dean, “Did you just refer to salad as junk food?”  
Cas continued to muse, blue gaze glossed philosophically, blissfully uninterrupted by what was going on around him, “The same viciousness applies to the entire food chain really.” He picked up a forsaken green bean from the cutting board, twisting it glumly between his fingertips, “These green beans, for example; the promise of perpetuation of life for the plant contained within these pods were crudely severed by someone’s unsympathetic bare hands. The recipe called for them to be brutally blanched in a pot of boiling water until fork tender, robbing them of their enormous potential for propagation. And what’s worse, now they will be slathered in butter which, contrary to antiquated belief, is not at all an appropriate treatment for burns. It’s really a wonder humanity has survived this long with such a propensity toward violence in every aspect of their existence.”  
“Yeah,” Sam met your eyes and parodied the angel’s seriousness, “hunger can drive people to do some pretty horrible things.” He nodded in a mockery of despair at his brother, “Dean in particular. You wouldn’t believe how many pies I’ve seen him carve to pieces.”  
Cas visibly trembled.  
You bit your lower lip endeavoring not to burst into laughter.  
Dean tried and failed to look repentant.  
Sam went on, expounding the gruesome details, “This one time he disemboweled an entire strawberry rhubarb single-handedly…”  
The angel’s square jaw dropped in horror.  
Sam feigned a sniffle at the memory, “…with a spork…in front of a group of school kids. And the stupid grin on his face afterward…I’m sure they still have nightmares.”  
Cas carefully considered Sam’s tale, his blue eyes glinting meditatively as he spoke, “I have noticed Dean does seem to relish tormenting those things and people he professes to love most. I had never considered hunger to be a motivating factor.”  
“Truer words have never been spoken,” you grinned.  
Dean curled his lip, shooting the chicken a suspicious glare, “Uh, anyone else think we should just order pizza?”


End file.
